Progress
by Nixing a Rose
Summary: "You knew it, knew when you stepped in the car there was obviously no going back. You knew it, and yet you tossed away the information..." PWP.


_AN:_ I tl;dr'd my rant, so no more long dull thing about how annoyed I am with the fandom presented for Craig.

Derp.

**EDIT: Title change, and major alteration to this... Thing. Sweet Jewish Christ.  
**

* * *

He spoke in such a slow, drawling tone that it sends shivers down your spine. You are always boneless when it comes to a customer: there just are no "if"s, "and"s, or "but"s about it. You have no control in this situation, and that was that. Done and dusted. Cut and dry.

"Down." the syllable dripped with everything that you hate- and love -about Craig. It is a simple command, but implies so much more. It's your surrender to him, your giving up and submitting to everything Craig is going to do to you. It's your laying yourself bare for whomever wants to come and have a round. You're scared to give your freedom, so scared to lay belly-up to such a dominating alpha.

And yet, you aren't.

You have this strange sense of comfort when you're so close to this noirette. You feel as if this dingy room is the only world you need, the only thing that matters in this shitty life of yours. You grew up in a hick town, you'll only ever be a no-good hilly-billy to anyone and everyone. In the words of the famous Stan Marsh: you're a melvin. Gum on someone's shoe; you're meant to be stepped on and despised.

But you don't want that. You don't want this. You hate living like this, giving a little piece of your soul to everyone who wants your body. Soon enough, you will have nothing. Soon enough, you will be an empty shell.

Soon enough, you'll die.

If only.

"Did you not hear me? I said _down_!" his voice is much more forceful, but still that monotonous tone that you remember from those years back then. Does he not recognize you? Does he not remember you from all those times in elementary school? Does he not recognize you from last week's excursions?

"_Butters_." he hisses. Oh, so he does. But now that you know he knows who you are, you're not so sure you want him to know. Perhaps it was a bad idea walking over to him tonight, trailing your fingers down his chest in such a glaringly flirtatious matter your grandmother has probably flipped in her grave. Instead of having eyes filled with disgust and obvious contempt, the grey orbs only hold a bedroom. A bedroom, and humid air caused by the heat between your bodies.

You knew it, knew when you stepped in the car there was obviously no going back. You knew it, and yet you tossed away the information- discarded it like one might do with underwear in a heated moment. Like you might do to your own in a second.

He's tired of waiting. He's not paying for you to think, to ponder on what exactly your meaning in life is because there has to be more then just servicing anyone with enough in their wallet. The stinging feeling across you cheek that rushes right down to your crotch is enough evidence of that. You can't look up at him, it might put him off. It might discern him that the person he's paying to get him off helped him in many schemes in a time long gone.

His cold and clammy fingers ghost along your jaw, sending yet another of many shivers down your spine. You give a slight groan, of what: not even you are sure. And you finally do look up into his face, look up to see just what your little noise has done to him.

He's smiling.

That's good, hopefully.

He beckons to you with his finger, gesturing for you to come and join him on the bed. Perhaps it's the sultry look he's giving you that puts you on edge, perhaps it's the fact that he's _here_, especially after high school and last week.

It's almost like he-

You're flung by your wrist, almost like some sort of rag-doll, and it's surprising that it isn't dislocated. Landing gracelessly on the bed, he gives a sardonic smirk while he unbuttons his shirt. Maybe he knows what he's doing to you, throwing you around like a toy. If only you could show him how much you enjoy it, thwart his plan before it has reached fruition.

You can't, though. Doing so results in him losing any reaction he gets from watching you cast aside like some sort of common whore- which you wholly admit to being -and in the end losing a client. In the end, losing a little more lining for your next to bare wallet.

In the end, losing what little progress you've made.

He begins tugging at your roguish blond hair, fisting it and pulling out god-knows-how-many strands. You give whimpers of pain when he expects it, willing tears to prick at your eyes. In reward, you get a satisfied smirk and a knock backwards. You gasp slightly, feigning surprise and hurt, all the while enjoying the fact that _someone _would spare you more than a second glance.

As you're pressed into the bed, feeling the heat begin to surface as you are stripped of your garments, you can only think of how simple things were before. How a simple crush and simple girly doodles in your notebook were just so _simple_.

As your pants are dragged down, and you feel yourself rubbed through your boxers, you feel a little pang of shame. Here you are, stuck in a dodgy hotel with someone you haven't really talked with in five years, getting ready to do unthinkable things to your body once more.

But more importantly, you feel a little pity for Craig. Though you shouldn't be talking- or thinking -about a person in an obviously much higher position than yourself: you can't help it. Perhaps it's unorthodox, wrong, frowned upon, but what in the world that you've ever done isn't? You might as well feel a little shame for the raven-haired man, seeing as he needs someone as low as you for this purpose.

You want to hold him in your arms, to hear his cries of anguish and destroyed self-worth. Maybe that's what love is, wanting to split the pain your other half is feeling unevenly and take the larger portion for yourself. You wouldn't mind being smothered under the weight, as long as the other person's load is that much lighter.

Or maybe love is the feeling in the pit of your stomach when you see them, daring you to do something as idiotic as seducing them because you know that it would make them feel better.

But probably, and most likely, it's this possessive feeling; this need to swear yourself to him and no one else. This need to make sure no one else touches him, to run away with him and store him for only your eyes and tongue and hands and moans.

Sadly, it's all in your head. Anytime you would gasp out "I love you!" he would slap you across the face and tell you to shut up. You should have learned by his training, but you haven't. You still slip up every once in a while, accidentally proclaiming an emotion he does not reciprocate during a heated moment.

A hastily spit-slicked finger slides inside of you, probing with practiced ease- getting you after a few tries. He's a fast learner, unlike you. You buck against him in a wanton fashion, abandoning any sense or reason for just him and all of himself. He plants hard kisses against your jaw as he slowly slides another finger in, distracting you from the pain with nips and teases at the crook of your neck.

As he scissors your over-used hole, you can't help but feel a little of the Forbidden Emotion creep into your feelings. It hurts like hell, but you'll be damned if you make him stop. You give off a mini-string of almost-expletives whispered underneath your breath as he stretches you, preparing you for what all of this is leading to.

A light _thunk! _is heard as his belt and pants hit the floor. Maybe you ought to sit up or something, but a hand snakes along your chest and presses you down. You stay still, but the hand doesn't. It creeps up onto your lips, stroking them gently before shoving one deep inside.

You take it in greedily, coating it and the second one with your saliva. The fingers taste like ass (more particularly yours) but you ignore the flavor and gaze up from underneath your lashes at Craig. He's watching with approval, staring down his slightly pinched gaze to watch you do all sorts of provocative things to his fingers. Swirling the slick muscle across the tip and lapping at the pad, making a scoop with your tongue and rolling the digit in the space.

He quickly withdraws the appendage, coating himself with it in an almost crazed manner. You might have given a slight chuckle at his haste had he not chosen that exact moment to slam into you.

And god (who no longer exists in your excuse for a life), for perhaps the third of fourth time doing this with him, it still hurts like _hell_.

You arch your back and manage to get your calves onto his shoulders as he tries to find a rhythm. After a few misses, he finally gets it right and settles into a pace with you. Sweat begins to bead at his brow as he leans down to whisper dirty things in your ear, soiling any sort of "lovely" feeling you could get from this. He tells you how you're worthless, how the world would be better off without a whore like you. Your lips tremble as you give a dry sob; his assault to your body and the toying with your mind almost to much.

How could he do this to you? You love him- you're sure of it -and yet he continues to show you he doesn't care about you. Telling you to just go and off yourself.

The hand in your hair unclamps and sweeps across your jaw, bringing your face up so he can look at you. Maybe there's a slight wetness dampening your eyes, or maybe the pang in your heart is showing through the windows to your soul and every crevice in your face. Whatever it is, his torrent of filthy words stops and the hand at your hip tightens, leaving four equally spaced red crescent-moon marks on your ass and a thumbnail imprint on your hip.

The release of his grip on your mental and physical state swells your heart again, and you want to tell him you love him.

But you can't.

He won't ever let you touch yourself, he's always got to be in control. He finally does- sharp, erratic strokes and pumps, trying to get you to feel the same way he is. And eventually you tip over the edge, because he tells you to. You lose yourself in that river before he fills you and collapses.

Though you know this will have consequences, you stroke his ebony hair as he hiccups; he's not giving real sobs, just dry heaves. Pulling yourself up to his ear, you whisper what you shouldn't.

"I love you."

He nods.

It's progress.


End file.
